Heroes
by SpecialParanoia
Summary: When Reid is shot, he and Garcia learn that great minds do indeed think alike. Sort of. Angsty-fluff. One-shot.


**Disclaimer:** Not mine, never will be, not making any money, etc. You know the drill.

Very minor spoilers for 'Penelope'. Angsty-fluff scenario I couldn't get out of my head.

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**Heroes**

Four hours, two minutes, and eleven seconds. Twelve. Thirteen…

They'd been waiting- standing, sitting, pacing, crying, drinking coffee, holding hands, cursing, questioning, praying, pleading, agonizing for four hours, two minutes, and twenty-five seconds.

It felt like so much longer.

Aaron Hotchner had received the call only moments after the ambulance sped away from the scene courtesy of a surprisingly thoughtful D.C. police officer whose toes he may or may not have stepped on in the course of an investigation within the last six months. He'd been mercifully brief, giving the lead agent only the pertinent information and a promise of swift justice for his injured comrade, hanging up before Hotch could unlock his car door.

He was sure he must have broken a land speed record on his way to the hospital but, sitting in the waiting room now with his team, he couldn't remember the drive itself. Not whether he'd flipped on the lights of the bureau vehicle, calling Dave or the other members of the BAU, pulling into the parking lot at nearly fifty miles per hour- not even if he'd had the sense to put on his seatbelt before tearing through the city streets like a madman. All he knew for sure was Reid had been shot and it had been four hours and three minutes since the others arrived and helped him corner a nurse in search of answers, only managing to find out their young genius was being wheeled up to surgery and the doctor would find them _'in the waiting room'_- she had stressed that part as she eyed the security guard standing by the entrance doors- when there was anything to report.

Four long hours spent imagining the worst but fervently hoping for the best for their friend. Watching each other wear down the ugly reddish-brown carpet whose color was painfully reminiscent of dried blood. Taking turns getting cups of heartburn inducing bad coffee from the machine down the hall. Staring out into the corridor for a man or woman in green surgical scrubs coming their way.

Trying their damnedest not to think of Elle or Georgia or Gideon or any of the other awful things they had yet to truly finish healing from.

JJ was between crying jags, clutching Emily's hand tight enough to turn her knuckles white. To her credit, Emily didn't pull away even though she'd long since lost feeling in her fingers, but squeezed back as best she could, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. Garcia had cried herself out approximately two hours and forty-seven minutes ago, and now sat huddled as close to Morgan as humanly possible, head nestled on his shoulder and make-up a mess. Derek gladly held his baby-girl close, whispering reassuring words into her ear every so often and doing his damnedest not to fly off the handle- _again._ Dave Rossi could sympathize; normally, keeping a sense of aloofness around his colleagues came relatively easily no matter the situation- Colorado obviously being the exception- but this was too much, too soon.

Shootings, hostage situations, cases that hit way too close to home, friends dying… and that was only in the short time he'd been with the team. It seemed these unlucky few were doomed to live with constant tragedy and fear if they wanted to be a part of the BAU, and that didn't sit well with the experienced profiler at all. There was no conceivable reason anyone could possibly deserve such a run of bad luck- especially not kind, naïve, selfless Dr. Reid- and he too wanted very much to rail at the world for the injustice of it all.

Hotch, for his part, didn't even try to hide his distress behind the usual stoic façade. He had neither the energy nor the desire to play the role of collected team leader this time around, and it was all he could do to keep himself from terrorizing the staff for updates and his butt in the decidedly uncomfortable plastic chair. As it was his right leg wouldn't stop bouncing, fingers tapping along in rhythm when he wasn't chewing on the nails.

This was how the attending surgeon found the group five hours, eighteen minutes and fifty-five seconds since his beeper had interrupted some rather serious flirting with nurse Joan- an anxious, impatient, miserable mess. He cleared his throat a little, six heads immediately snapping to attention.

"Family of Spencer Reid?"

* * *

She heaved a deep breath as she approached the door to the private room, hands clenching and twisting with increasing rapidity as her nerves got the better of her.

"Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I can't do this. I can't…" she muttered, trailing off in frustration. "Why me? Why would he ask for me and not Hotch? Or Morgan or JJ or even Rossi? Oh, sweetie- why are you making me see you like this?"

She'd thought by now she would have completely cried herself out, but as she stood at the barrier between her and her dear, sweet young friend, Penelope Garcia found herself once again blinking back tears. This was what they had been waiting- _hoping- _for for so many hours, and now that she could finally see for herself Reid was indeed alive and on the road to recovery she found she couldn't bear to. It was hard enough seeing the pictures and videos and whatever else came across her computers when it was a stranger so beaten and broken down, but when it was someone she knew and loved she began to feel positively ill.

According to the nurse, Reid had woken shortly before he was moved from Recovery to the Intensive Care Unit, and had asked for Garcia specifically. The others were understandably surprised and just a little jealous that, after yet another two hours of waiting, it was the eccentric computer tech he'd wanted to see and not someone to whom the genius was considerably closer to on a personal level. For that reason alone Penelope knew she should be thrilled, flattered even, to be the one standing here now, and yet the bigger part of prayed Reid had fallen back into a pain and drug-induced sleep while waiting.

Shaking herself a little, Garcia squared her shoulders as she sucked in another great breath and slowly pushed open the door.

It was dim in the room, a single overhead light providing very little illumination. The beeping monitors and equipment cast a strange green glow over the occupant's pale face, shining on his long hair and darkening the circles under his mercifully closed eyes. He looked so small and fragile in the large bed, a mess of tubes and wires running under and over the thin blanket someone had carefully covered him with, that she wondered briefly if they'd given her the wrong room number. This couldn't be her tall, handsome, exuberant Junior G-Man.

"Oh, sweetie…" she whispered. The answering reply nearly startled her out of her skin.

" 'S'not as bad 's it looks- or so they tell me." It was breathy and barely audible, but once her heart settled back into a normal rhythm Garcia decided it was a wonderful sound. She settled herself into the bedside chair and tried to find a way to safely wriggle her hand through the rail and nest of lines to hold his, but failing that settled for gently brushing his hair aside. It took a few moments, but she was finally rewarded with a pair of soft brown eyes peering blearily up through half-open lids. He couldn't seem to focus completely, blinking slowly at her as he fought valiantly to stay awake, knowing if he didn't tell her now he'd forget.

Reid licked his dry lips and tried to take a bigger breath, wincing a little when he felt the stitches pull in his side.

"I jus' wanted-" he was cut off by a harsh cough that tore at his already dry, aching throat. Garcia immediately went for the pitcher of water sitting on the table, relieved to see a bendy-straw lying next to the plastic cup. Reid closed his eyes in bliss as he sipped the cool liquid, almost glad for the lethargy that kept him lying prone (even if it meant he couldn't so much as hold the cup himself or pick up his head) for he was sure he could have kissed the blonde for her quick intervention otherwise. _'It must be the drugs…'_

"Thanks," he breathed when she pulled the cup away.

"Aw, anything for you, sugar. Better?" He nodded, dragging his eyes open again.

"I just wanted to tell you what happened to me in the ambulance." He paused to take another breath, confused by the stricken look passing over the tech's face until he realized what exactly he'd said. "No, no- nothing like that. No white lights," he rushed to reassure, feeling rather foolish for making such a dramatic declaration- especially as Garcia only continued to stare at him in horror, obviously not the least bit comforted.

"It was more… that I _heard_ something, actually. Knew I'd have to tell you. But, it wasn't David Bowie."

That did the trick, in a manner of speaking. The horrified expression was certainly gone.

"David Bowie?" she echoed, nonplussed. Several long minutes passed by in silence while the bizarre statement sunk in. Reid could practically see the wheels turning and knew the instant things clicked into place.

"Oh, jeez," she laughed. "You had me going there, kiddo. That's why you wanted to see me right away? Tell me Mr. Bowie _isn't_ God? 'Cause I kinda' figured that one out on my own."

"Didn't want t'forget it. Knew you'd 'preciate it."

"Oh, I certainly do mon ami. Of course, I'd ' 'preciate' it more if you would tell me this auditory hallucination came about because you were thinking of moi…" Garcia said with a wink.

"That's 'zactly what happ'n'd."

She could tell by the way his words were slurring even more that Reid wasn't going to last much longer, but she couldn't help ask one more question.

"So, then- if not for the great and powerful Bowie, what song came to that genius mind when thinking of yours truly?"

Reid grinned tiredly, letting his eyes droop closed as he relaxed into his pillows.

"Same," he muttered, almost wishing he had the energy to drag his eyes back open to see the confusion undoubtedly crossing over his friend's features. "I jus' prefer the Wallflowers…"

OooOooO

The End…?

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**A/N:** I always imagined Reid to be a closet music buff.

Not sure if this feels finished or not, but couldn't think of anything else to add. Any thoughts? Constructive criticism is always appreciated- but just so we're clear, flames will be dutifully ignored, so don't waste your time.


End file.
